Down the dark future, through long generations,
The echoing sounds grow fainter and then cease;
And like a bell, with solemn, sweet vibrations,

I hear once more the voice of CHRIST say, "Peace!"

Peace!—and no longer from its brazen portals

The blast of War's great organ shakes the skies; But, beautiful as songs of the immortals,

The holy melodies of love arise.

TEL

A PSALM OF LIFE.

ELL me not, in mournful numbers,
"Life is but an empty dream!"

For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.

Life is real life is earnest!

And the grave is not its goal;
"Dust thou art, to dust returnest,"
Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Find us farther than to-day.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,

And our hearts, though stout and brave,

Still, like muffled drums, are beating

Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of life,

Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no future, howe'er pleasant!
Let the dead past bury its dead!
Act-act in the living present!

Heart within, and GoD o'erhead!

Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of Time-

Footprints that perhaps another,
Sailing o'er Life's solemn main
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,

Learn to labour and to wait.

FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS.

WHEN the hours of day are numbered,

And the voices of the night

Wake the better soul that slumbered

To a holy, calm delight

Ere the evening lamps are lighted,
And, like phantoms grim and tall,
Shadows from the fitful firelight

Dance upon the parlour wall;

Then the forms of the departed
Enter at the open door

The beloved ones, the true-hearted,
Come to visit me once more;

He, the

young and strong, who cherished Noble longings for the strife,

By the road-side fell and perished,
Weary with the march of life!

They, the holy ones and weakly,
Who the cross of suffering bore,
Folded their pale hands so meekly,
Spake with us on earth no more!

And with them the being beauteous
Who unto my youth was given,
More than all things else to love me,
And is now a saint in heaven.

With a slow and noiseless footstep
Comes that messenger divine,
Takes the vacant chair beside me,
Lays her gentle hand in mine;

And she sits and gazes at me

With those deep and tender eyes, Like the stars, so still and saint-like, Looking downward from the skies.

Uttered not, yet comprehended,
Is the Spirit's voiceless prayer-
Soft rebukes, in blessings ended,
Breathing from her lips of air.

Oh, though oft depressed and lonely,
All my fears are laid aside,

If I but remember only

Such as these have lived and died!

THE

EXCELSIOR.

HE shades of night were falling fast, As through an Alpine village passed A youth, who bore, mid snow and ice, A banner with the strange device— "Excelsior!"

His brow was sad; his eye beneath
Flashed like a falchion from its sheath;
And like a silver clarion rung

The accents of that unknown tongue-
"Excelsior!"

In happy homes he saw the light

Of household fires gleam warm and bright: Above, the spectral glaciers shone,

And from his lips escaped a groan— "Excelsior!"

"Try not the pass!" the old man said:

"Dark lowers the tempest overhead;

The roaring torrent is deep and wide!"
And loud that clarion voice replied,
"Excelsior!"

"O stay," the maiden said, "and rest
Thy weary head upon this breast!"
A tear stood in his bright blue eye,
But still he answered, with a sigh,
"Excelsior!"

"Beware the pine-tree's withered branch! Beware the awful avalanche !"

This was the peasant's last good-night;
A voice replied, far up the height,
"Excelsior!"

At break of day, as heavenward
The pious monks of Saint Bernard
Uttered the oft-repeated prayer,

A voice cried, through the startled air,
"Excelsior!"

A traveller, by the faithful hound,
Half-buried in the snow was found,

Still grasping in his hand of ice
That banner with the strange device,
"Excelsior!"

There in the twilight cold and gray,
Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay,
And from the sky, serene and far,
A voice fell, like a falling star-
"Excelsior!"